The Man in the Rain

Clara Bennett saw the hand before she saw the man.

It lay palm-up in the road, white beneath the sweep of her headlights.

She hit the brakes. Her seat belt cut across her chest. The car slid, caught, and stopped with a jolt that knocked her teeth together.

For a moment she heard nothing but rain.

Then the wipers dragged themselves across the windshield, and there he was: a man stretched across her lane, his head inches from her front bumper.

"Oh, God."

She put the car in park with both hands shaking.

Ten minutes earlier, a deputy had waved her away from the highway. Mudslide, he'd said. Take the river road. Behind him, men in dark rain gear had been heading uphill through the trees, their flashlights swinging.

She had assumed they were looking for stranded motorists.

Now she was less certain.

Clara grabbed her phone, discovered she had no signal, and got out anyway.

Rain struck her face hard enough to sting. Water ran over her shoes as she crouched beside the stranger.

He was on his back. Black shirt, black trousers, expensive leather shoes. His hair had fallen over his forehead, and his face had the drained, waxy color of a candle.

She looked at the gap between his skull and her bumper.

She hadn't hit him.

Relief came first. Shame followed immediately.

"Can you hear me?"

She pushed his hair away from his mouth. He was breathing, but so faintly she had to lean close to be sure.

His lashes moved.

"I'm going to get help."

She started to stand.

A hand closed around her ankle.

Clara gasped and caught herself against the hood. His grip was astonishingly strong. His thumb rested against the small bone above her shoe, cold skin against cold skin.

He opened his eyes.

They weren't unfocused. That frightened her more than the blood she hadn't yet seen.

"Don't go."

His voice was rough, almost swallowed by the rain.

"I'm not leaving you. I need my phone."

He tugged once, making her crouch again.

"No police."

She stared at him.

His hand slipped from her ankle to her wrist. He drew her palm down his chest, over his stomach, and pressed it to the right side of his lower abdomen.

Warmth seeped between her fingers.

Not rain.

She looked down. Beneath his open jacket, the black fabric was torn and sticky. The smell rose through the wet air, metallic and sharp.

"You're bleeding."

His mouth moved as if he might laugh.

"I'd noticed."

"Don't do that. Don't joke."

She pressed harder because it was the only useful thing she could think of. His stomach tightened beneath her hand.

"I can drive you to Briarhaven General. It's fifteen minutes. Can you get up? Should I even move you?"

He studied her face through the falling water.

"What's your name?"

"Can you stand?"

"That's an unusual name."

She almost cried from frustration.

He saw it. Whatever amusement had been in his eyes changed.

"Put your arm under mine."

He hooked an arm around her shoulders. Clara braced herself and pulled. His weight drove her knees into the road, but he found his feet with a bitten-off sound and leaned against the hood.

He was enormous standing up.

She was five feet six. His shoulder rose above her forehead.

"Back seat," he said.

"I know where the seats are."

A breath escaped him. It might have been a laugh.

Getting him into the car took all the strength she had. When he finally folded himself across the rear seat, she fetched the pink fleece blanket she kept in the trunk and pushed it into his hands.

"Hold that against the wound. Keep pressure on it."

She turned the heat up, angled the vents toward him, and climbed behind the wheel.

For two miles, he said nothing.

Clara drove with her shoulders nearly touching her ears. Every bend shone with water. Every patch of standing rain looked deep enough to swallow a tire.

She couldn't drive faster. She couldn't bear to drive this slowly.

"Are you still awake?"

"Yes."

"Tell me if you feel faint."

"What will you do?"

"I don't know. Something."

He was quiet after that.

She checked the mirror. His eyes were shut.

"Don't fall asleep."

"I'm resting my eyes."

"That sounds like falling asleep."

He opened them just enough to look at her reflection.

"You're very bossy."

"You're bleeding on my upholstery. I think I've earned it."

His gaze stayed on her another second, then moved to the rear window.

Clara concentrated on the road.

She had been driving back from Westbridge with the last of her things from university in the trunk. Books, a broken desk lamp, two canvas bags of clothes. Tomorrow she was supposed to report for her first day at the local development office.

She had planned to arrive at her aunt's, make up the sofa, and sleep for six hours.

Instead, a stranger was bleeding into her emergency blanket.

The hospital sign appeared beyond the next intersection.

"We're here," she said, and let herself breathe.

She eased toward the turn for the emergency entrance.

Something hard touched her lower back.

Not a hand.

A narrow, round pressure through the gap beside her seat.

Her foot stiffened over the brake.

"Keep driving."

He had leaned forward. She could see his face in the mirror now, close behind her shoulder.

There was nothing sleepy about him.

"You need a hospital."

"Not this one."

"You could die."

"Then we'd better not waste time arguing."

She looked at the object without moving her head. She couldn't see it. She didn't need to.

Her eyes filled so quickly the lights blurred.

"Take the next right," he said.

A car honked behind her.

Clara pulled away from the turn.

For several seconds neither spoke. She kept both hands on the wheel, afraid that lifting one would make him think she was reaching for something.

"Having second thoughts about being helpful?" he asked.

She swallowed.

The tears were humiliating. Worse, she couldn't stop them.

"You owe me your life," she said.

His eyes shifted back to her in the mirror.

"Remember that."

The corner of his mouth moved.

"I will."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't joking."

The pressure left her back. She didn't relax.

He settled into the seat, took the pink blanket off his shoulder, and pressed a fresh fold against his side.

"I'm not going to kill you."

Clara said nothing.

"Keep your eyes on the road, sweetheart."

She had been looking at him again, trying to memorize the shape of his face. His nose had a slight bump along the bridge. There was an old pale line beneath his jaw.

"I am looking at the road."

"Good. I'd hate to have to take those eyes away."

She jerked the wheel.

"That was a joke," he said.

"Find a different one."

He laughed, then caught his breath sharply and pressed his fist to the blanket.

Clara hated that she was worried.

He directed her into the old south end of town, where the storefronts leaned close to the street and dark brick shone under broken gutters. She stopped outside a narrow building with a green cross painted on its door.

A gray-haired man in slippers came out beneath the awning.

"You look terrible," he told the stranger.

"Nice to see you too, Walter."

Before Clara could get out, headlights washed over her car from behind.

One SUV stopped close to her bumper. Another pulled up in front.

Men got out.

Big men, moving quickly, their coats dark with rain. One had tattoos disappearing under both cuffs.

He opened the rear door and looked inside.

"Boss."

The stranger tilted his head toward Clara.

"She brought me."

The tattooed man looked at her properly then.

Clara reached for her keys.

A hand settled on top of the driver's door, holding it open.

"Come inside," the man said.

Behind him, the doctor lifted the blanket from the stranger's side and stopped smiling.